Before the cold, snowy morning broke, we were all stirring.  The children, who had learned that their father was preparing to leave them, were crying and clinging round his knees.  His heart was too deeply affected to eat; the meal passed over in silence, and he rose to go.  I put on my hat and shawl to accompany him through the wood as far as my sister Mrs. T—–­’s.  The day was like our destiny, cold, dark, and lowering.  I gave the dear invalid his crutches, and we commenced our sorrowful walk.  Then old Jenny’s lamentations burst forth, as, flinging her arms round my husband’s neck, she kissed and blessed him after the fashion of her country.

“Och hone!  Och hone!” she cried, wringing her hands, “masther dear, why will you lave the wife and the childher?  The poor crathur is breakin’ her heart intirely at partin’ wid you.  Shure an’ the war is nothin’ to you, that you must be goin’ into danger; an’ you wid a broken leg.  Och hone!  Och hone!  Come back to your home—­you will be kilt, and thin what will become of the wife and the wee bairns?”

Her cries and lamentations followed us into the wood.  At my sister’s, Moodie and I parted; and with a heavy heart I retraced my steps through the wood.  For once, I forgot all my fears.  I never felt the cold.  Sad tears were flowing over my cheeks; when I entered the house, hope seemed to have deserted me, and for upwards of an hour I lay upon the bed and wept.

Poor Jenny did her best to comfort me, but all joy had vanished with him who was my light of life.

Left in the most absolute uncertainty as to the real state of public affairs, I could only conjecture what might be the result of this sudden outbreak.  Several poor settlers called at the house during the day, on their way down to Peterborough, but they brought with them the most exaggerated accounts.  There had been a battle, they said, with the rebels, and the loyalists had been defeated; Toronto was besieged by sixty thousand men, and all the men in the backwoods were ordered to march instantly to the relief of the city.

In the evening, I received a note from Emilia, who was at Peterborough, in which she informed me that my husband had borrowed a horse of Mr. S—–­, and had joined a large party of two hundred volunteers, who had left that morning for Toronto; that there had been a battle with the insurgents; that Colonel Moodie had been killed, and the rebels had retreated; and that she hoped my husband would return in a few days.

The honest backwoodsman, perfectly ignorant of the abuses that had led to the present position of things, regarded the rebels as a set of monsters, for whom no punishment was too severe, and obeyed the call to arms with enthusiasm.  The leader of the insurgents must have been astonished at the rapidity with which a large force was collected, as if by magic, to repel his designs.  A great number of these volunteers were half-pay officers, many of whom had fought in